


Needful Things

by Topaz_Eyes



Series: 24: Narrow Daylight [3]
Category: 24
Genre: Angst, Hand Job, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-16
Updated: 2005-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second night being storm-bound, Jack has a revelation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needful Things

**Author's Note:**

> Follow-up to "Blizzard". Thanks to [](http://jazzypom.livejournal.com/profile)[**jazzypom**](http://jazzypom.livejournal.com/) for the beta!

The abrupt crack of something breaking reverberates off the side of the house like a ricochet, startling Jack awake from a reasonably sound slumber. Immediately alert, Jack blinks in the dark, quickly adjusting to the lack of light in the room, and then springs out of the warm nest of bedclothes to check on the source of the noise. The bedroom is almost pitch-black; the only source of illumination in the room, the red display on the bedside clock, reads one thirty-seven. He stands at the window shivering, drawing the curtain back to try to find what had broken. Peering out, he cannot see anything through the haze of blowing snow in the muted dark; even the lone light in the yard is obscured.

This is the storm's second night of howling, wild and keening across the plains. The third storm already this December, tumbling towards the longest night of the year, it has blown in from the north and decided to settle over the prairie, stubbornly refusing to budge. Not so much snow as wind at first--stinging the face and piercing through any chink or crack in the building--but then the snow picked up too, laden with moisture from the Pacific and driving into the wood. It will eventually melt into the ground, which has not yet frozen, or evaporate on the dry chinook winds. Until it does though, it makes everything—the roads, the hollows, their lives—all that more treacherous.

_Their_ lives, because he is not alone in the house right now; he has a (welcome, though unexpected) guest staying with him. Ironically the blizzard seemed to arrive with his visitor, a friend from the murky past. He and Tony have been snow-bound for the past day and a half, cooped up in the house since the storm broke. Jack spreads his hand wide, presses the pads of his calloused fingers against the icy glass to watch the blizzard outside. The dense layered frost on the pane melts into fingerprint-shaped ovals. The air in the room is frigid and raises goosebumps along Jack's forearms; the golden hairs stand out from his skin. The draughts around the window fixtures only add to the cold; it is painfully obvious that a T-shirt and boxers do not provide a sufficient barrier against this chill. He thinks he should crawl back into bed where it is warm.

It would be pure madness to venture outside in the snowy maelstrom tonight, so Jack waits in case the wind dies down, trying to see what had shattered from its onslaught. He stands at the window long enough to see the wind abate, though the snow still falls steadily. With the wind calming, the storm should be over soon. The branches of the trees already bow under the heavy white weight; without the wind to obscure his view he immediately sees the split form of the large cottonwood just across from the window, missing one of its great branches. That was the source of the noise that had woken him up then. He is sure that more branches will definitely snap by morning if this snowfall keeps up. Possibly some power lines too. They have been lucky this time around that the lines have held so far and they have not yet had to rely on the generator.

The human-shaped lump under the covers stirs, rolls over and pulls the blankets tighter around it as if to compensate for missing warmth. Jack watches the movement out of the corner of his eye--an ingrained residual habit from his surveillance training, so long ago now it doesn't even twinge anymore to think about it. His lips quirk fondly at the sight--the dark tousled head half-buried beneath the bedclothes--and feels ridiculously grateful for the company it represents. He lets the curtain fall and turns away from the window to study the profile of his bed mate. His house-guest. His friend. His--?

How long has it been since he has had anyone in his bed? Let alone two nights in a row? It is not an idle question; subconsciously he has been counting the months, weeks, minutes since the last time, and he is not quite sure why. Or more likely, he does not want to admit why. There are times when the yearning for any sort of solace is so intense that he is powerless in its wake. At those times he usually doesn't care much about who is beside him. Why does it matter so much that Tony is in his bed now?

He wonders if he should be more disturbed by it than he is. Tony is a man he considers a friend. Who is married, with a family, who has suffered an incredible blow; who's come to Jack for comfort in grief, understanding in loss. Any of those reasons alone should have stopped him cold. In the past they would have. He does not want to end up hurting anyone, he doesn't want to take advantage of a friend's pain to alleviate his own; least of all a friend who's just been to hell and then some. He knows precisely how that feels.

But maybe it is precisely because they are both so badly hurt, and alone, and together now, that they have turned to each other—to ward off their demons, to share a bed; to seek shelter, or solace, or whatever it is they're both missing.

Though two straight male friends, as a rule, generally do not have sex with each other.

They will drink together, fight together, maybe allow a brief moment of weakness in front of each other; but they will never show any sustained vulnerability, and almost certainly never sleep together. In the end he knows it's because he's tired of being alone. Trying to alleviate the loneliness in Tony's arms isn't so bad, considering the alternatives he's seen. If there is anyone who understands what hell is like it's Tony Almeida.

And really, in the end it's comfort they want. Closeness. Nothing else. He keeps telling himself that the sex itself is inconsequential. Neither of them actively seek it out for its own sake; it just happens, fueled by circumstance, one thing leads to another. It is not even really sex, he thinks—they rub against each other, they get off; they don't speak of it, they just let it overwhelm them and it's over. No real harm. It's comfort made physical. That's all.

Right?

He steps away from the window, now thoroughly chilled from the draught leaching around the panes; teeth chattering he climbs back into bed beneath the sheets. He rolls on his side, curled up and facing away from his bed mate, trying not to shiver; he tells himself he does not want to disturb Tony's slumber. Tony stirs though, rolls over again and slides towards him, closing the distance between; Jack feels one bare arm wrapping round his waist as if by instinct. Tony's skin feels like fire.

"Christ, you're freezing, Jack," Tony murmurs with a sleepy slur in his ear, and spoons against him, gathering him close and molding his sleep-warm limbs to Jack's chilled body. His hand splays against Jack's stomach just above the waistline of his boxers, pressing gently against the ridge of muscle under his T-shirt. Jack lets himself fall back into the heat of Tony's embrace, drawing the simple comfort he craves from it.

He feels Tony's warmth begin to leach out the cold that has settled down to his bones. His shivering subsides, replaced by heavy torpor in his limbs. A small, satisfied noise escapes his lips, and he feels oddly at peace. At times like this the world effectively shrinks to the borders of arms and silence, broken only by their tandem rhythmic falls of breath—lulling and perfect. Jack's eyes drift closed and he drops toward the brink of sleep.

Then Tony nuzzles against Jack's neck, humid breath ghosting against the nape; his tongue flicks out to lave along Jack's vertebrae. Jack inhales sharply at the tickling sensation of wet sandpaper on his skin. Tony's splayed hand slowly eases beneath the waistline of Jack's boxers, softly brushing his pubic hair. It is deliberate and daring, direct and hesitant all at once. Jack's vague sense of sleepy pleasure dissipates, replaced by stunned shock and the not-so-vague stirrings of heat in his veins.

Jack holds his breath, suspended. The times before, Jack has always taken the initiative: back in May, in drunken loneliness; yesterday afternoon, to soothe his friend's pain; last night, to soothe his own. Tony has willingly, eagerly gone along with it, as desperately needy as Jack in his own way; though not taking the first step himself. Until now, Tony has held back, not that it mattered. But something has changed now, shifted, ricocheting in the space between; the surrounding air crackles with it and Jack is overwhelmed by the abrupt charge. He finds himself instinctively arching forward, trying to maneuver into a better position; suddenly wanting Tony's hand that is still and flush against his body, around him and _fisting_.

Tony knows it too; his lips curve into a teasing smile on his neck. "Christ, you're so fucking _eager_ for it--"

"Shut up, Almeida." He tries to sound casual but his voice is thick and tight, belying his need.

A low throaty chuckle rumbles from Tony's throat, sending sparks along Jack's skin straight to his cock. Jack is instantly hard and aching; he strains against the thin cotton of his underwear.

"Want me to do something--?"

It sounds suspiciously like a smirk, but also something more--rich and dark and laced with an urgent unspoken demand. They have developed a sort of shorthand over the years, one of sideways glances, brief phrases and passing gestures, that speaks volumes to each other if to no one else. Jack realizes that in the past thirty-six hours they have also added sex permanently to their odd language. Sex is no longer inconsequential—this knowledge is both insanely thrilling and completely terrifying. Perhaps it is better that it is pitch-dark and that Jack faces away from him. Jack is suddenly afraid that if he sees Tony now, sees his eyes and his yearning reflected there, he will break wide open with this understanding and then where would they be?

Jack tries to answer but all that comes out is a glottal croak. He might have been mortified by it if he weren't paying attention to Tony's hand sliding out from his boxers to ease them over his hips and down to his knees. The fabric catches and drags against the head of his cock, and Jack gasps with the searing friction. Then Tony's hand is _oh thank God_ pressed against his stomach again, and it slips lower, palm and fingers massaging in small electric circles above his hip and pubic arch—lazily, maddeningly, sliding around and everywhere but where Jack _needs_ it to be. He thrusts forward, seeking non-existent purchase as Tony strokes along his inner thighs, the juncture of hip and leg. Tony cups his balls with the gentlest of pressure, squeezing them lightly, his finger grazing underneath—oh holy _God_ Jack is _blind_ with longing now, he can't get any harder than _this_ without exploding and he whimpers for release, begging shamelessly with sheer _need_. _Christ_, if Tony doesn't stop fucking _teasing_ him like this he's going to come without his prick being touched _at all--_

Then _oh sweet Jesus_ Tony's hand is _there_, wrapping around the shaft of his cock and stroking, slowly and tentatively at first as if he has never touched another man's prick before (and neither of them have, until yesterday). But Jack has felt nothing better than this in such a long, _long_ time so it doesn't matter how awkward Tony's jerks are, or that the pressure is a little lax, because Jack simply reaches down and wraps his hand around Tony's to tighten his fingers just _enough_; it doesn't matter because Tony is a fast learner and adjusts his strokes accordingly, and is now swiping his thumb across Jack's leaking slit, smearing the drop of fluid over the head, and Jack is almost _keening_ in ecstasy. Now Tony is dropping hungry biting kisses against the nape of his neck and pulls him flush against his body so Jack can feel the pressure of Tony's own rigid and weeping cock against the back of his thighs--

Tony's pelvis is thrusting forward, a rhythmic motion against his buttocks in time with the strokes against Jack's cock. Jack feels Tony's throbbing bulge push into his legs. Tony did not pull down his own boxers, not that it matters because the slight roughness of brushed cotton between Tony's prick and his bare skin feels fucking _wonderful_. The only thing better would be skin on skin but right now Jack is too preoccupied to ask for that, for he is completely lost in the endlessly tighter coiling of pleasure at the base of his spine--

He could go on forever just like _this, oh God_ the universe outside could end and Jack wouldn't care, because his world has shrunk to _this_ bed under him _and this_ man around him, _these_ fingers jerking him and the white light behind his eyes blinding him with its near-unbearable brilliance—then he cannot bear it any longer, the light explodes and he cries out as it consumes him, shooting out and over Tony's hand and just barely registering Tony's lust-strained whisper against his neck, "Yes, Jack, _yes_," as if from far away.

Shattered and spent, Jack lies senseless in Tony's arms, trying to remember to breathe; until he recalls vaguely that Tony too needs release, now pumping his hips erratically against his buttocks in a desperate effort to find it. So Jack holds himself completely rigid, arching backwards to meet each thrust, keeping his thigh muscles taut to provide a column of firm flesh for Tony to rub against. Tony groans with undisguised pleasure and _fucking God_ Jack wants this too, with everything he has, he wants Tony to come so much he almost can't stand it. Tony grips Jack's hipbone with enough strength to hurt; there will be more finger-shaped bruises in the morning. But that is not what matters. What matters is that Tony finally shudders and stills for that endless split second, before coming with soul-wrenching gasps into Jack's shoulder and growing warm wetness on Jack's leg.

They lay sweaty and trembling and completely undone, unable to speak for a long moment. Until it grows ridiculously hot under the covers, the air humid and sticky—so Jack throws the comforter off to let the icy air outside cool his overheated skin.

Tony sighs and rolls onto his back. "Dammit. Should've taken these off first."

Jack grins and shakes his head in the darkness. "Who was calling whom 'fucking eager'?"

Tony snorts good-naturedly and Jack's grin grows wider. There is movement beside him as Tony shimmies out of his semen-stained underwear. "Hey Jack, can I borrow a pair--?"

"Top chest drawer."

The mattress shifts as Tony rises, and the sudden loss of his warm solidity leaves Jack painfully bereft. He wipes himself off with a corner of the sheet, slides his boxers back up, waits, shivering again in the night air but not from cold. He hears the chest drawer slide open with a slight wooden squeak; the faintest rustling of fabric; a second wooden thud as the drawer slides closed. Then Tony is back beside him, the mattress compresses with his weight and Jack rolls toward him, reaching out to cover them both with the comforter. They align themselves under the sheets, fitting themselves together—arms and legs entangled, Jack's head resting on Tony's shoulder. Jack's feeling of loss subsides, lulled by the steady heartbeat under his ear; though it persists at the edges of his consciousness, never too far away.

Jack lifts his chin and their searching mouths meet in the darkness. The soft mash of wetted lips, the lazy slide of tongues, chase away the last vestiges of loneliness for now. They break the languid kiss and Jack settles back down on Tony's shoulder, his hand resting over Tony's heart. Outside the snow begins to taper off; it will have ceased completely by morning. Tomorrow should dawn bright; they will dig themselves out, Tony will leave again, his life will bounce back almost to where it was. But until then there is now—Tony's warm body under the bedclothes to curl against, a night to sleep through, sated contentment. Everything he needs is right here. So Jack drifts off, holding safe and secure to this feeling, as the snow slows and stops soft in the night.


End file.
